As some bewildering mystery of a tarn,

A mountain water, that the mornings scorn

To anadem with fire and leave gray;

To which a champion cometh when the day

Hath tired of breding for the twilight's head

Flame-petaled blooms, and, golden-chapleted,

Sits waiting, rosy with deep love, for night,

Who cometh sandaled with the moon; the light

Of the auroras round her; her vast hair

Tortuous with stars,—that burn, as in a lair